Eliza sipped tea as she watched the boy chew his bread, feeling just the tiniest bit guilty for having put a charm on it.

  In the week he’d been working for her, he’d been quiet, and while he’d often pause to examine things, carefully figuring them out, he rarely asked questions.

  He hadn’t even asked who the flame bloom was for. Most people would be a little curious, wouldn’t they? Well, not even she knew who her employer was, not exactly. It had been arranged through the council of wizards, though her contract bore a government seal.

  “May I go, Ms. Scaggs?” Something in the boy’s voice wasn’t quite right. He was anxious. About what, she had no idea.

  Trying not to show her suspicion, Eliza nodded quietly and watched him slip out the door. A few minutes later, as the Sun dipped below the city skyline, she dumped her remaining tea into the sink and headed out into the streets.

  It was the height of summer, and the cool evening air felt refreshing against her skin. She concentrated, reaching out with her spark until she felt the charm emanating from the northeast, towards the River Tembus.

  Eliza followed it. In the Merchants District, the streets were well lit, lined with cast iron posts that held spark lamps overhead. Their harsh amber light wasn’t pleasant, but it was cheap and effective.

  The streetlights ended at the entrance to the docks, their absence marking the levee wall. It blocked her way, and the shortest path to the charm was through a back alley, so she cut across—

  Something heavy and wooden scraped the ground behind her, accompanied by hurried footsteps.

  A man’s voice drawled, “My my, what have we—”

  —Was cut short as firelight flooded the alley. The gaunt man it belonged to, dressed in rags, now wore the distinctly stunned expression of someone who just realized they’d made a grave mistake.

  Fury rising in her chest, Eliza stepped toward him, drawing spark into her hand. “And just what were you planning, on doing, to me?”

  He turned to run, but as she raised her hand, a wall of fire rose across the exit of the alley, sealing him in.

  “Answer me,” she repeated, “What were you planning, on doing, to me—exactly?”

  “Nothing, ma’am,” his voice wavered.

  “Nothing?” She pointed to the plank he was carrying, and flames burst from the wood.

  His hand flinched away, dropping it.

  “Next time, it’ll be your other stick.” She flicked her index finger, and a shower of embers shot from the man’s crotch. Not enough to do any real damage, but more than enough for him to think on for a few days.

  When he’d gone, she wondered if that would change anything. Maybe he’d just move on to another district, and every misdeed he did there would be something she could have prevented. Maybe he even deserved death… But that was not the sort of thing, she thought, someone like her ought to get used to handing out. So she grit her teeth and continued on her way.

  The charm led her to a long pier inundated with drunken sailors staggering this way and that. Some were trying to dance while others whooped and hollered at her approach. She restrained herself, merely scowling at them, and—all—the men shut up immediately.

  “I’m not that scary, am I?” she muttered under her breath.

  She was getting close to the charm now. When she stood still, feeling for it, it didn’t move. The boy must be nearby, but the only place he could be was on a ship—

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  A shiver ran up her spine. Feeling stalkerish enough for following him this far, she turned and headed home.

  The boy sure didn’t seem like a sailor. He was too slight of build, too fair-skinned, and too well-mannered. Maybe his father worked at the harbor? That would explain what he was doing here; but then again, if Thelemule did want to hire someone to steal her secrets, the docks would be the place to start.

  ? ? ?

  The next night, she stepped out from her door, expecting to step right back inside. The charm should have weakened, making it undetectable from any great distance, but there it was. Curiously, it led her around to the back of her property, to just outside the rear gate.

  She found the boy there, huddled against her back wall, under a newspaper. He was sleeping soundly.

  Eliza went back inside. Was he living rough, or spying on her? or worse? She barely slept at all that night, and when he showed up for work the next day, she’d been debating with herself whether or not to confront him.

  “You look dirty, boy,” she said, trying to hide her fears in agitation.

  “Sorry, Ms. Scaggs.”

  “I suppose it’s not your fault, but the first thing you’re to do every morning is wash up, understood?”

  “Yes, Ms. Scaggs.” He nodded, shying away from her, not meeting her gaze.

  Not ready for any more blast experiments and unsure what else to do, she put the boy to work scrubbing the hallway floors. Later, as she paced them, she found herself pondering the amazing—almost too amazing, job he’d done. Maybe he was used to cleaning ships?

  She found Oliver up on the second floor, gazing longingly, almost lustfully, out a window.

  He hadn’t seen her approach, and she peered over his shoulder to see what he was gawking at. There were three girls, young women perhaps a year older than him, across the row buying flowers from a street vendor.

  In her imagination, he was following one of them down a dark alley at night—

  The mugger, that man in the alley, it would be one thing to let a villain like that go, and another thing entirely to train him to use a spark. She’d be responsible for everything he did with it.

  Fire rose, tingling her chest. She blew out a hot breath.

  “Shall I call you Ogle, then?” she asked coldly.

  Startled, the boy, Oliver, spun around in a panic. “Ogle? What?”

  “Those girls. You have work to do, and even if you didn’t, it’s not polite to stare. So, I think your name must be Ogle, Ogle.”

  Face flushing red, Oliver skulked back to work, mop in hand.

  “Ogle, the stairs still need cleaning,” she scolded, and the boy cowered, guilt written all over his face.

  “Ogle, you’ve tracked in dirt. Wipe your feet and clean the kitchen, properly, this time,” she said; though, there had only been a single smudge on the floor, much less than normal.

  Her thoughts kept bouncing between Thelemule, of his spy, of that man in the alley, and of Oliver. She’d be a fool if she didn’t do something, and she found herself working up to do the smart thing, the safe thing.

  “Ogle, why do you want to be a wizard, anyway? After all, the work required for that profession would drastically reduce your free time for ogling girls.” This boy who hid outside her gate as she slept…

  “I was not ogling them,” he said, anger in his voice. “Do not call me that again—” Then, drawing pale as he seemed to realize his mistake, he forced the word, “Please.”

  Nice try, but time to finish this. Eliza worked herself up for one final push. “I saw you staring. Don’t you have any shame?”

  “Their clothes! I was staring at their clothes. I do get sick of looking like this.” He motioned to his rags. “Forgive me for wanting. I apologize.” Eyes tearing up, he lowered his head.

  But Eliza had pointed to the door the instant he raised his voice, and he was now quietly shuffling toward it.

  The rags he had on. Though she had never much cared for clothes herself, she’d be embarrassed to wear what he had on in public… The burn scars on her legs began to itch.

  “No, wait.” She dropped her hand, swallowing her rage. “Is that all?”

  The boy turned around, slumped and defeated.

  “Stay,” she said, pointing down. “Stay.” How could she be so… so callous?

  She left him alone until the Sun set and found him diligently washing the floors in the library, his eyes planted firmly on the ground.

  “Oliver, come here.” She motioned. “I won’t bite… your head off… again. I’m sorry.”

  He let out a raspy breath, avoiding her gaze.

  “Take this.” She handed him an unlit candle.

  “Look, I’m going to use my spark to—almost—get it going.” And as she held out her hand, a curl of smoke rose from its wick. “That should make it easier for you to feel. Close your eyes if you have to.”

  The boy closed his eyes.

  “Now, in your mind, feel for my spark and just sort of flick at it.”

  Nothing.

  “Forget who I am, forget who you are, just be your spark.” She always thought that part sounded cornball.

  Nothing.

  “Go ahead and punch mine in the face if that—”

  And as the boy peeked, a flame rose from the candle.

  “So, that worked for you, did it?” Guilt weighing, she looked at him.

  Finally, he met her gaze. “You did kind of deserve it.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m a terrible person.”

  “No, you’re not.” He shook his head. “You just…”

  “Made a mistake?” As Eliza sighed, the scars on her legs cooled, and the itching stopped. “Well, I guess you are part of the household staff now, or all of it really. Next time we go to the market, we’ll get you some clean work clothes. And hey, if we see those girls, you can ask them where they got theirs,” she joked.

  He tensed up. “Wait—boy’s clothes though, right?”

  She groaned, giving a slight smile. “Yes, of course. I am not that cruel.”